“those things
which yo so laughingly call
hands are in fact two
brown butterflies fluttering
across the pleasure
they give my body”
.
— Nikki Giovanni ”The Butterfly
.
.
NEW and USED: http://www.abebooks.com/servlet/SearchResults?an=nikki+giovanni&sts=t
Anti-apartheid poet Antjie Krog as high school student wrote a famous poem that caused great commotion at the time:
Loosely translated by myself.
Look, I will build me a land
Where skin doesn’t matter not at all…
Just your mind and mine
Where no goat face in the halls of parliament
can never not ever spook to keep things
permanently
cramped
[…[
where black and white, hand on hand
may bring peace and love
to my beautiful land.
Kyk, ek bou vir my ‘n land
Kyk, ek bou vir my ‘n land
Waar ‘n vel niks tel nie,
Net jou verstand.
Waar geen bokgesig in ’n parlement
kan spook om dinge permanent
verkramp te hou nie.
Waar ek jou kan liefhê
langs jou in die gras kan lê
sonder om in ’n kerk ‘ja’ te sê.
Waar ons snags met kitare sing
en vir mekaar wit jasmyne bring.
Waar ek jou nie gif hoef te voer
as ’n vreemde duif in my hare koer.
Waar geen skeihof
my kinders se oë sal verdof.
Waar swart en wit hand aan hand
vrede en liefde kan bring
in my mooi land.
Black, mixed race poet Bessie Head, from South Africa and settled in Botswana.
“Where the Wind Don’t Blow”
My home is a swagger and a shrug
You know:
When you get a smack in the face
And the pain don’t hurt: You are the master…
Sindiwe Magona on Nelson Mandela
Black South African poet, Sindiwe Magona reads her poem The Taste of Change -about Mandela.
She worked as a help, got her secondary school diploma through correspondence, Columbia University later on, worked for the UN.
The Taste of Change
Mandela in jail No milk in my body
Mother at work I hungry
De Klerk free Mandela No milk in my body
Father at work I sick
Mandela meets De Klerk People clap and dance
Rain come through my roof I cold
Change on every lip Father Mother and Me
and Thousands others We die
The rhythm is slightly off, but I think it conveys the mood better.
And this stayed with me forever,
How notably stiller death is –compared to sleep,
That it is a daily marvel to live,
And that we, with every ‘wakeningawaken as if from death.
Another ending, bit more awkward:
And this stayed with me forever:
How notably stiller death is compared to sleep,
That it is a daily marvel, to be alive,
That we with every ‘wakening are resurrected.
En voor altijd is mij bijgebeleven:
hoe zeer veel stiller dood dan slapen is;
dat het een daaglijks wonder is, te leven,
en elk ontwaken een herrijzenis.
J.C. Bloem
My dad would always giggle when he recited this to me and my sister. He had a couple of others too that were racier.
Billy, in one of his nice new sashes,
Fell in the fire and was burnt to ashes;
Now, although the room grows chilly,
I haven’t the heart to poke poor Billy.
— Harry Graham. The poem is called Tender-heartedness.
Song of the Open Road
I think that I shall never see
A billboard lovely as a tree.
Perhaps unless the billboards fall,
I’ll never see a tree at all.
Ogden Nash
The truth I do not stretch or shove
When I state the dog is full of love.
I’ve also found, by actual test,
A wet dog is the lovingest.
Ogden Nash
Even dreams weren’t safe, for hiding
in them were guns, aimed, ready to shoot.
Even children know this: loading leads to unloading.
– Patricia Monaghan, “Loaded”
I did not write this poem
in anger,
I did not write this poem
in “Self-Defense.”
I did not write this poem.
Because my pen is empty from
having already written & written this poem.
– Joel Dias-Porter
From Black Girl Dangerous: donate at http://www.blackgirldangerous.org/donate/
Black* Transwoman to Black Cis/Transman: An Open Letter/Poem for Trayvon and the Rest of Us
07/14/13
By KOKUMO
ATTENTION WORLD:
I, LOVE, BLACK* MEN.
From the drug dealers, heart surgeons, stuck at rock bottom, ten years sober, servin’ a dime to life, ex-con turned youth-minister, trans*, gay, D.L., paraplegic, Olympic gold-medal winnin’, current U.S. presidency presidin’, illiterate, artistic, broke as a joke, ballin’, dark-skindid, light-skindid, country-bama, Brooklyn-bred, OG, GD, Rasta bombaclot, to the European transplant and etc.
And no matter how many Jim Crow laws you revise, nothin’ can change that. I grew up with black* men. I’ve fought with black* men. And black* men have fought, for me. Hell, I was supposed to be, a black*, man. I’ve been insulted by black* men. I’ve been consoled by black* men. I’ve been schooled, had my socks knocked off, and mind blown by black* men. I’ve loved black* men, and had the privilege of having them love me back.
Therefore I KNOW BETTER. Black* men are human. They come complete with contributions as well as flaws. And black* men have a seemingly generational immortal dream to live. Therefore I KNOW BETTER than to believe you when say they deserve to die. Therefore I KNOW BETTER than to believe your propaganda. Therefore, I won’t.
ATTENTION BLACK MEN:
Black* transwoman to black* cis/trans* man. I revere and respect you for living brave in a world that hunts you with hypocritical indignation. I thank you for living in the body I couldn’t and doing it with such swag, intellect, and a vengeance.
As a black* transwoman I want you to know that I never abandoned you or took the easy way out. A war was waged on black* bodies the moment the first slave touched Virginian soil in the 1600′s. So I transitioned from “male” to “female” because I just needed to be in more comfortable battle fatigues.
ATTENTION BLACK* COMMUNITIES:
Trayvon Martin was my little brother, Emmitt Till, my North Carolina sharecropper forefathers, and me before I transitioned. Young, black*, male-bodied, and trying to figure out why my body owes the world an apology. Black* communities across the world, please hear me. Before I knew what trans* meant, I knew how black* felt. Non-LGBT black* people I beg of you. Discard your fear and join forces with your LGBT black* siblings. Because everyday we lose more and more of our sons. Ase.
All work published on BGD is the intellectual property of its writers. Please do not republish anything from this site without express written permission from BGD. Yes, linking to this post on Facebook and Twitter or elsewhere is okay.
KOKUMỌ is an African-American transgender woman and product of Chicago’s South Side. To KOKUMỌ surviving is passé. Therefore, she believes in sanctioning artistic, political, and actual space for other Trans, Gender Non-Conforming, and Intersex (TGI) people of color to thrive in. In accordance to this belief and her name, she created KOKUMỌMEDIA. KOKUMỌMEDIA uses film, music, and literature to create and generate realistic depictions of TGI people of color.
SUPPORT BGD’s writers and help amplify the voices of queer and trans* people of color!
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From ‘Midlight the Stable Place’ (that word midlight!)
‘Below the southern, seaward ledges, where,
Such is the heavy weathering away,
No flower grows, no silence hearts the air,
Each rock gives slowly from its utmost bay,
[…]
It is midwaste of breaking and the foam,
Midblack the upward curve, the flecking lace,
There always order gives disorder room,
There always midlight is the stable place.
[…]
R.P. Blackmur
— one of the most important Dutch language writers. Died in 1936 so his Dutch is older, very similar to Indonesian Dutch. Rich, full vocabulary. Ship’s doctor to Indonesia, China, Japan, Africa, Latin America.
For a distant princess
Never again will we get back together:
The world forced us apart.
At times at night we both stand at the window,
But different stars we see in different times.
Your country is so far removed from mine:
From light to farthest dark– That I
On wings of yearning and in restless journey,
would greet you with my final cry.
However, if it’s true that by great dreams dreamt
The deepest longing can be carried on
all the way to the most distant star: then I will come
Then I will come, every night.
J. Slauerhoff (1898 – 1936)
Voor de Verre Prinses
Wij komen nooit meer saam:
De wereld drong zich tussenbeide.
Soms staan wij beiden ’s nachts aan ’t raam,
Maar andre sterren zien we in andre tijden.
Uw land is zo ver van mijn land verwijderd:
Van licht tot verste duisternis—dat ik
Op vleuglen van verlangen rustloos reizend,
U zou begroeten met mijn stervenssnik.
Maar als het waar is dat door grote dromen
Het zwaarst verlangen over wordt gebracht
Tot op de verste ster: dan zal ik komen,
Dan zal ik komen, iedre nacht.
Jan Jacob Slauerhoff
Eerste Verzen. J.J. Slauerhoff
[…] Dit is het leven met den dood verzoenen:
Dat alle oogsten wortlen in het doode,
Dat grauwe gronden rozen overrooden;
Uit de vermolmde woeker, het verfoeisel,
Zal Vrijheid stijgen, een volvruchtig bloeisel.
[…]
Mijn teedre vreugden zijn gevormd in porselein,
Anders dan zeer bezorgd raak ik hun randen niet;
De azuren geurwolk die mijn blonde thee ontvliedt,
Ontvoert vervluchtend ‘t leed en houdt mijn zielsrust rein.
[…]
Awesome poetry from all over. 